


Sunrise to Sunset

by apostapal



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen, In Another Life They'd Probably Have Kissed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 13:29:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14874644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apostapal/pseuds/apostapal
Summary: two chosen cross paths and, for a brief moment, find comfort in that. though nothing good can be permanent.





	Sunrise to Sunset

when she wakes, her memories do not. they are a cloud, endless fog she cannot yet navigate, but the fire in her burns the way through eventually.

she remembers a time, once, when she was happy.

she remembers it going away. fading to pain and darkness. cold reality and harshness.

she remembers that time passing and another, fleeting, moment of happiness.

then there was nothing. for so, so very long.

she knows not what an ashen one is. she remembers being undead, not unkindled, and this strikes her as a largely unfavorable change. she has aged, somehow, while being ageless. she feels a heat behind one eye and, when she can finally view her reflection in the metal of her blade, finds one eye scorching orange where it was once mellow gold. in her shock, she nearly drops the weapon.

she does not remember what, or who, made her happy either time she was. she remembers a laugh, a warmth (unlike one of the fire that burns her bones now), and a certain safety.

once, she sees a vision of soft blue eyes. but she does not remember who they belonged to.

whoever they were, they are now gone. everything is gone. so she moves forward. because looking back yields nothing. because there is nothing to look back to.

but sometimes she hears a note on the air, like someone whistling birdsong, and pauses her steps. because it is nice to listen to, if nothing else. sometimes, she whistles back; it feels natural. once, she even swears her lonely mind summons a voice to her ears.

‘little bird, fly true.’ someone said this once, she remembers.

she cannot remember who.

* * *

“little bird, fly true.”

she smiles, really smiles, for the first time in what seems like forever. he’s never seen her smile; she always looked so serious.

it was, after all, a serious matter. they both fully understand what she is about to do. she stands at the precipice of greatness. where he, too, will stand when she finally has made her leap.

she turns her back to him, gazing at the smoldering flames, and asks, “will you miss me?”

he nods, at first, but then realizes she cannot see him. so he clears his throat to speak.

“very much.”

he cannot image a world without the sun. it will be so very dim, so cold, and he aches at the mere thought. but it must be.

“if i am able to miss anything,” she says, “it will be you.”

she looks so tired, so small, at this moment. he wishes for all the things they could not be. all the lives they could not live. because their lives are gone, because being undead means you don’t get to live anymore.

before it can hurt more, he turns his back to hers. he walks for the door, footfalls as loud as possible, and hears a faint whistle. birdsong. she’s always whistled birdsong.

he whistles back, shaky and quiet, and the door closes behind him. he stops, feeling the warmth of the fire on his back even through the thick kiln door, and thinks of what he must do now. his own journey, now realized, to be his own fire. he will do this, he will succeed, and he will be great. just as she was.

he will whistle birdsong the whole way. he will be merry and proud. he will make her fire burn brighter with his own love. he will go bravely into his fate and relish in his final resting place.

but before this, before he can get anywhere near it, he sits on the ash covered steps of the kiln and openly weeps.

* * *

they look at each other, swelling with pride over the fallen beast beside them, and breathe deeply. eyes meet; mellow gold to soft blue.

were this a romantic story, they might have kissed.

but it is not. it is far and way from a romance. this is a journey, a shared battle, and there can be no true happy ending.

but he moves toward her all the same. she steps forward as well. they seek closeness, comfort, something neither can properly remember having in years and years.

“thank you.” she says, wrapping her left arm around him roughly. the pyromancy glove in her hand warms his back through his armor.

she is like the warmth of the sun, he thinks, and he rests his chin on her shoulder.

they’re all jagged points and rough edges. it’s not a comforting hug by nature but it’s still somehow soft. they warm each other inwardly, strong arms pulling each other painfully close, and then they part over what feels like an eon.

“thank you.” he says back, eyes on hers, and smiles.

she does not smile. she has never really smiled, as far as he remembers, but he feels a warmth rise from her all the same. it is enough. what they have, what they are, is enough.

later, she sits close to him at the fire in the shadows of the gods’ kingdom. he chortles about feelings and connections, as if they are a joke, but she frowns and he goes quiet.

“what do you think of me?” he asks, suddenly.

“you are my companion.” she replies quickly, “i should prefer you never leave my side.”

this is love. he knows, she knows, neither has to actually speak the word. not that it would matter, honestly.

this is not a love story. but there is love, so much of it. and it aches at them both because it should never have been, but it persists anyway.

she rises from his side and moves to leave. he grabs her hand, quickly, and she looks down at him. he wishes he could kiss her, he realizes, and wonders if he’d ever kissed someone before he was undead. probably. it doesn’t matter now; he cannot remember wanting to kiss anyone else but her.

instead of kissing her, he pulls himself up with her hand. she tenses her muscles to aid him, a steady brace, and he almost thinks she’s smiling when he passes her face in his rise.

this is not a romance. this is a tragedy and yet a victory. love will only make it hurt more. but here they are, all the same, full of love.

* * *

the sunflower and the songbird.

for one second, just one moment, instead of turning to the sun he turns to her. and everything else is lost to ash and memory. they have other goals, other expectations, and other lives. one day they will regret. if they can remember.

he waits for her, when he rises from the embers. she is unkindled and he is a king. it is such a change; a change from the days when he was embers and she was kindling.

she’s burning from within, the sun cracking through her skin, and he’s nothing but embers. they are hot and violent where they were cold and soft before.

“i’ve missed you.” he says as she enters.

she looks at him and, in the flash of recognition, he realizes one of her eyes is a burning ember instead of silky gold.

“you?” she asks, voice wavering. “why you?”

“would you have anyone else, songbird?” he asks.

she smiles, a sad thing, and shakes her head.

“never.”

the sunflower follows his sun. the songbird does not block his view. she is the light he’s always sought after.

in the final moment, she throws her spear. he tosses his sword, his shield. she grabs his tabard, pyromancy glove searing near his neck, and he braces his hands on her shoulders.

“you’re not trying.” she hisses, pulls at him. “have you given up?”

he smiles. she can’t see it, but he does.

“i’ve nothing left to fight for, little bird.” he says, “i’ve seen you again. everything else is borrowed time.”

she stares at him a moment, harder than he’s ever seen her face, then hot tears hit her ashen cheeks and she shoves her forehead against his shoulder roughly. he pats his hand against her back, remembers the last time they embraced now, and sighs.

“i’ve found my own sun again.” he says, quietly. “i need not fight for another thing in this world.”

if they are to burn this time, he decides, they will burn together.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this collection of pieces for ages now and I'm still just weirdly fond of how they turned out so I wanted to put them all together somewhere.
> 
> In case you missed it the implication is 100% that the Ashen One and Chosen Undead are the same person and that Solaire became a Lord of Cinder. Half of me thinks it was a dumb idea and the other half still thinks it was genius so idk!!


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